PDLP Chapter 332 Hard Landing
Chapter 332 Hard Landing
2:13 AM. A 7-Eleven in Adachi Ward.
There was a person standing behind the cashier.
Rika Ono has been working the night shift at this store for forty-seven days.
From 10 PM to 6 AM. Hourly wage is 780 yen, monthly income is approximately 116,000 yen. After paying rent and utilities—there's enough left for food.
Three months ago, she was working at a real estate company in Roppongi. Her annual income was 3.2 million yen. Not a lot, but enough for one person to live comfortably in Tokyo.
I have a regular lunch spot, a plan to go to Hakone for hot springs at the end of the year, and a Burberry trench coat that I bought three years ago by saving up two months' salary.
The trench coat is still in the closet.
...The company went bankrupt on August 15th.
The president stood at the morning meeting for thirty seconds, said, "Today is the last day," then bowed ninety degrees and walked out of the meeting room.
The HR staff handed out envelopes at the door—inside were the last two weeks' salary and a termination certificate.
While waiting in line for the envelope, Rika was holding a can of coffee she had just bought from a vending machine.
She didn't finish that can of coffee.
The convenience store was quiet in the early morning. The hum of the fluorescent lights was the only constant background noise in the space.
Outside the glass window was an empty county road, with streetlights illuminating a section of concrete guardrail. On the guardrail was a torn-up election poster—only half of the candidate's face was visible.
Rika stood behind the cashier, with nothing to do.
So far tonight, we've closed sixteen orders. The average order value is around 370 yen.
Canned coffee and rice balls were the main products. Three people bought cigarettes. Nobody bought magazines—the Weekly Bunshun and Weekly Shincho on the magazine rack were covered with a thin layer of dust.
Her gaze fell on a copy of "Job Hunting Magazine - Autumn Issue" lying under the cashier's counter. It had been left by a colleague from the afternoon shift; she turned to a page in the middle, the spine already creased.
She picked it up.
I flipped through a few pages. Most of the companies' job postings said "several positions"—a phrase in the job market that means "may or may not be filled."
Several companies directly stated "Usage suspended for this year".
When she turned to page 137, her fingers stopped.
A whole page of GG.
A white background with a silver-gray emblem in the upper left corner—it seemed to be called the Three Bars emblem? She wasn't quite sure.
On the right is large black text:
SA Group is recruiting full-time employees. No educational background required. Those with experience in retail, logistics, or real estate are welcome.
Below are four job titles: Logistics and Warehousing Management, S-Mart Store Operations, SIS Data Center Operations and Maintenance, and SA Construction Site Supervision.
The starting salary was listed on the bottom line. It was 20,000 less than her monthly salary at the real estate company—but it was listed as "regular employee".
Regular employee. Full social security coverage. Twice-year bonuses (summer and winter). Transportation expenses fully covered.
In this magazine—or rather, in this October—she only saw this one page where the words "full-time employee" and "no educational background required" appeared together.
Rika pulled a pencil out from under the cashier.
She drew a circle in the corner of the page.
The pencil tip paused on the paper for a second. Then she closed the magazine and placed it under the recycling counter.
2:31 PM. The automatic door slid open.
A man in overalls walked in.
She was in her thirties, her safety boots were covered in dried cement dust, and her work jacket was fastened with a safety pin to the zipper—she noticed the safety pin because her umbrella had been repaired in the same way.
He was also carrying an S-Mart shopping bag and a Uniqlo bag.
"Welcome—" Rika said, bowing slightly, her mind still inappropriately focused on—
Are these two companies also under the SA Group?
The man walked to the beverage counter and took a can of black coffee.
"Thank you for your patronage." Rika put the change into the cash register and pushed the coffee and receipt over.
The man picked up his coffee, nodded, and turned to leave.
The automatic door closed.
The convenience store is empty again.
The background music from the overhead speakers switched from a noisy gay song to the next one.
piano.
Then comes the human voice.
A very quiet female voice.
The breath was even, the tone was clean, as if it came from a very far place, yet very close—like someone standing between a shelf and a freezer, gently singing to the air.
Rika stood behind the cash register, her hand resting on the edge of the cash register.
At 2:35 a.m. in Adachi Ward, the song sounded exceptionally clear in a convenience store with its stark white fluorescent lights.
She listened for about ten seconds.
My nose stung a little.
The night she received her bonus and bought herself a Burberry trench coat, she went to sing karaoke to celebrate. The voice there was exactly the same as before.
She lowered her head and pressed her index finger against the bridge of her nose. Then she straightened up and tightened the straps of her apron again.
The song is still playing.
She bent down again, pulled out the job magazine from under the counter, and turned to page 137.
Look at that circle drawn with a pencil.
I watched for five seconds.
Then she closed the magazine and put it away.
look up.
On the county road outside the glass window, at the easternmost edge of the horizon, there is a very thin gray-white gap—dawn is approaching.
At 2:47 a.m., there were still 3 hours and 13 minutes left before the shift change.
Rika put her hands into her apron pocket, and her fingers touched the pencil.
She didn't let go.
……
Yoshio Kimura reset the odometer at 11:04 PM.
Roppongi intersection in Minato City.
He parked his car in the fourteenth spot in the taxi waiting area—at the same time last year, all eighteen spaces in the waiting area were full, with seven or eight cars lined up behind him.
Tonight, including him, there are five cars in total.
He turned off the engine and rolled down the window by a finger's width.
The night wind at the end of October blew in, carrying a chill and the smell of cooking oil wafting from the exhaust vent of an izakaya in the distance.
Kimura is 57 years old this year and has been driving a taxi for 19 years.
From 1945 onwards—no, it's now called the Heisei era—he started running the Roppongi-Ginza route.
Last year, this route was a golden route for Tokyo's nighttime transportation.
What was Roppongi like last year?
The intersection at 11 o'clock is like a pot of water that has just boiled.
Men in suits poured out of the building, holding up 10,000 yen bills to stop cars.
Those people don't wait on the roadside—they rush into the driveway and block our way.
Some people couldn't flag down a taxi, so they just raised the price.
"Master, Ginza, 15,000 yen." "Shinjuku, 20,000 yen, are you in or not?"
Of course we'll go.
Come on, why don't you go?
On his best night last December, he made fourteen trips. His sales totaled 92,000 yen.
When he got home, it was already dawn. His wife had cooked miso soup and was waiting for him. He fell asleep on the table before he even finished the soup.
That day he dreamed that he bought a new car. It was a very beautiful white Crown.
I've made four trips so far tonight.
The first time, from Akasaka to Shinbashi, a middle-aged man who was drunk got on the bus and said "going home," then leaned back in the back seat and started snoring.
When they arrived at Shinbashi, Kimura called him three times before he woke up.
When I took out my money, I rummaged through my wallet for a long time, and in the end, all I could find were coins. 1,400 yen.
On the second trip, the empty car patrolled for forty minutes before finally picking up a young couple in Azabu-Juban.
The boy was wearing a UNIQLO fleece jacket, and the girl was carrying a bag that looked expensive. Their destination was Shibuya.
The boy kept calculating the amount on the calculator the whole time, and his shoulders tensed slightly every time the amount jumped by 80 yen.
Upon arriving in Shibuya, the bill came to 2,200 yen. The boy paid, but did not leave a tip.
Last year, the same young people would toss a 5,000 yen bill and say, "Keep the change."
The third and fourth trips together cost 3,100 yen.
The total came to 6,700 yen. That's less than what I paid for a previous trip.
Kimura pulled a rice ball from the glove box. He had bought it at the S-Mart near his home before heading out that afternoon.
Pickled plum flavor, 100 yen. The wrapper is printed with the S-Food logo.
He tore open the packaging and took a bite. The rice grains were pressed firmly, a bit harder than the rice balls from convenience stores, but there was a generous amount of dried plum.
He chewed on his rice ball, looking out the windshield at Roppongi Street.
The French restaurant across the street has closed down.
The signboard is still there, but the shop window is dark inside, with a notice the size of an A4 sheet of paper pasted on the glass: "Closed due to various reasons."
The upscale club next door was also closed. The bar next door was still open, but there were no greeters in black suits at the door, and the neon lights were only half lit.
The shops on half the street looked like they had been erased one by one with an eraser.
At 11:41, the radio rang.
The dispatcher's voice was flat: "Any cars available in Roppongi? I need a shared ride to Adachi Ward."
Adachi Ward. It takes at least forty minutes one way.
If you add it in late at night, the watch face can probably reach 7,000 yen.
However, Adachi Ward means the return trip will most likely be empty. A forty-minute drive back will cost over a thousand yen in gas.
Kimura pressed the call button: "Kimura, accept the order."
…The passenger was a woman.
She was around thirty years old, wearing a light dark gray coat and carrying a paper bag. She gave us her address—a certain town and neighborhood in Adachi Ward.
She didn't say anything after getting on the bus.
Kimura glanced in the rearview mirror—she was leaning back in the seat, eyes closed, but not asleep. Her lips were slightly pursed, as if she were holding back something.
A corner of a transparent folder peeked out from inside the paper bag.
There were several papers in the folder. Kimura didn't look at them intentionally, but when he stopped at a red light, he caught a glimpse of the title of the top paper out of the corner of his eye—"Resignation Certificate (Resignation)".
What's wrong with this era?
The bus entered the Capital Expressway.
The highway was empty late at night, and the orange light of the streetlights swept across the car roofs at fixed intervals.
The radio was on, tuned to FM Tokyo, and the volume was very low. He couldn't hear what the DJ was saying, and then a song started.
piano.
Then came the human voice. A very quiet female voice.
Kimura didn't recognize the song. He's long out of touch with what songs are popular these days.
But that sound—made his fingers loosen their grip on the steering wheel a little.
The back seat was quiet for a few seconds, then he heard a very soft sound.
Sobbing.
It was very short, just one sound, and then it was suppressed.
Kimura didn't turn around. He turned the radio volume up one notch.
The singing was a little louder, just enough to drown out the silence in the back seat.
It took 38 minutes to drive from the Metropolitan Expressway to Adachi Ward.
We've arrived. The watch shows 6,400 yen.
The woman took out some money from her bag: a five-thousand-yen note, a one-thousand-yen note, and then counted out four one-hundred-yen coins from her coin purse. Perfect.
Kimura spoke as she opened the car door.
"guest."
She paused for a moment.
Kimura thought for a moment, and finally only said one sentence.
"Be careful on the road."
It's a very ordinary sentence. Taxi drivers say it dozens of times every day.
But tonight, he spoke a beat slower than usual.
The woman remained silent for two seconds.
"Thanks."
The car door closed.
Kimura watched her walk into the apartment building entrance; her slender figure was briefly illuminated by the motion-sensor lights in the hallway before disappearing around the corner.
He reset the odometer to zero.
Six thousand four hundred yen. Adding to the previous six thousand seven hundred, today's total sales are thirteen thousand one hundred yen.
After paying the share and fuel costs, I received a little over five thousand.
He started the car. The vacancy light came on, leaving a red streak across the quiet residential street in Adachi Ward.
The song on the radio had long since ended. The DJ was announcing the title of the next song—which he couldn't remember.
But the melody of that song is still playing in my head.
12:23 AM.
Kimura drove the car onto the national highway on his way back.
The road is lined with rows of low-rise apartments and tin warehouses, with the occasional convenience store still lit up.
He glanced at the fuel gauge; there was enough fuel for two more trips.
I'll change the oil tomorrow.
He rolled up the car window, placed his left hand on the top of the steering wheel, and reached his right hand onto the passenger seat, where he touched the half-eaten rice ball.
He stuffed the rest into his mouth, chewed a few times, and swallowed.
Umeboshi is very salty.
My tongue feels sour at the back.
But he couldn't tell if it was the sourness of the dried plum or something else.